The White Mask
by I-AM-SiriusLOCKED
Summary: Ria Smith was reporting on the latest heist of infamous jewel thief the White Mask when she met Sherlock Holmes. Finally, the consulting detective finds two people who are just as fast as him- a sharp, beautiful journalist, and a shadowy villain who always seems to be one step ahead of him.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: Although now free from copyright, the characters of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes and Inspector Lestrade were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The TV show ****_Sherlock _****and all the character adaptions therein are property of Hartswood Films, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The White Mask and Ria are mine, and if anybody tries to take them away from my I will put frogs in their bed. Quotes at the beginning of chapters have their sources beneath them.**

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><p><strong><em>"There is nothing more humiliating than to have a shabby air in the midst of rich women."<em>**

**_-The Necklace, Guy de Maupassant_**

_This_, thought Ria Smith vaguely_, is not how normal people deal with the loss of their family heirlooms. Normal people don't throw a sodding party._

She stood slightly away from the large crowd of all the other journalists in attendance (they were all drunk) and fiddled with the hem of her very tight black dress that was a good two feet shorter than any other skirt in the hall. The ballroom of Baroness Ewer's large stately home on the outskirts of London was just beautiful enough to make up for the awkwardness of the Ball in honour of Scotland Yard's Inspector Lestrade, who was investigating the theft of Ewer's beautiful carbuncle necklace (reportedly worth £25,000). There wasn't much investigating to do, really- they all knew it was The White Mask.

Once every few weeks for the past six months, a wealthy lord or lady had awoken to find part of their vast collection of jewels missing. There was always a printed note left behind-

_With love, The White Mask _

A week or so later, the same note would turn up at places like Great Ormond Street hospital, or the headquarters of Save the Children, accompanied by a bundle of cash that was the approximate worth of the jewels stolen (none of which had been traced- the police thought they had been taken apart & melted down, and sold unrecognisably up and down the country). The Mask had become famous, particularly after the third heist when, just before the security cameras had switched themselves off (as they always did) a slender figure had been recorded in one of them, dressed all in black with a simple white porcelain mask. The figure had been termed a "real life Catwoman" and the press had fallen a little bit in love with this mysterious woman with the ideals of Robin Hood.

Ria sighed, and ran her fingers through her glossy black hair. She hated this. None of the other journalists liked her unless they had their beer goggles on; the police distrusted her; and to all Baroness Ewer's friends, she was just another hack, unworthy of their attention. Ria's idea of a party was a dark room with bone-shaking music, scant, clingy clothes, and bodies pressed tightly against each other in a sweaty, sexually charged mess.

The Ball was the complete opposite of this. Grande dames and pampered heiresses danced leisurely with besuited and bowtied men to the elegant, classical music. Meanwhile, what Ria thought of as the "normals" (Lestrade's division of police and the press, who hadn't been invited but had leaked in through the gap underneath the door) stood around the refreshments tables, making awkward small talk.

No, wait- _he_ wasn't.

Across the hall from Ria, a tall man with his bow tie and top two buttons undone was leaning against the wall, looking haughtily bored. And good God, he was hot. Black hair that grew in errant curls and had evidently not been tamed for the exclusive Ball; skin that, like hers, was pale, and beautifully sculpted cheekbones that, if Ria had an ounce of poetry in her body, she would describe as looking like the work of an angel with a chisel. His eyes, pale and multi-coloured like the sea she had grown up by, were flicking from person to person, until they came to rest on her. He raised an eyebrow.

Ria was used to this. She was well aware that her own hotness which was so high that both men and women fell over each other's feet trying to come on to her- but this was not ordinary flirting. It felt… cleverer.

Without thinking, she wove her way effortlessly through the throng of upper class until she reached the man.

"Bloody hot in here, ain't it, cheekbones?"

"Quite," he replied, in a deep voice. His face was expressionless, but there was a challenge in those kaleidoscopic eyes; _show me what you're capable of_. "Shall we go outside?"

They did, out onto the veranda, and sat down on a low garden wall. The man lit a cigarette, and took a long drag on it. Ria watched him, biting her lip.

"Um… Mind if I have a drag?"

"Not at all." He passed it to her, and Ria took a smoke. As she breathed out, she moaned slightly.

"For the record, I have quit, you know."

"Obviously. I'm assuming the reason we came out here is not so you could steal one of my cigarettes."

"No; if I wanted to do that, I'd have pickpocketed you inside." The man laughed. "Who are you?" She asked.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"No, no, not your name," she told him impatiently, "your person. You're not a journalist; or else of the other ones would've pinned you down long ago to ply you with alcohol and try and fish your exclusives out of you. You're not some society drag; you talk posh, but you look uncomfortable in that suit, and you've already undone your tie. If you were used to these swanky dos, you'd have kept it on. You're not a private detective, 'cos I'd know if Ewer hired one. And you're not the police, either; the way you looked at them, as if they were beneath you. But you knew Lestrade, you were talking to him. I don't think he likes you very much, y'know."

Sherlock Holmes was impressed- very impressed, although he didn't give much away. "Good… Observation _and_ deduction- all you need is knowledge, and then you could almost put me out of a job."

"Which is?" She took another drag on the cigarette.

"Consulting detective; the only one in the world."

"That'll be why I haven't heard of it, then. So it's the police that're consulting you, right?"

"Correct again."

"Ain't that illegal?"

"If it is, then they choose to ignore that particular law. Nine times out of ten, they don't have a clue what's going on anyway."

"But you do?"

"Why else do you think I'm here?"

"Well if you'd solved the case, nobody would be." He laughed again.

"This is my first day on the case, as it happens."

"Mr Holmes-"

"Sherlock, please-"

"Sherlock, then. If you're so clever, tell me what I'm thinking, right now."

"I'm not going to answer that question."

"Why, because you don't know?" she teased him, well aware of the lack of space between them.

"_Au contraire_, I know perfectly."

"And you're just trying to deny that you're not thinking the same thing?" Her chestnut-brown eyes held his; she could feel his warm, nicotine-stained breath on her lips.

"I couldn't possibly comment, Miss Journalist."

"So you've figured out me, then? And the names Ria, Ria Smith-"

"Delighted to meet you-"

"I can tell. I never liked these parties-"

"Dull after five minutes, I always thought- but I suppose that they're a better alternative to sleeping on the streets."

Ria drew back sharply. "How the hell did you know that?" she snapped.

"No," replied Sherlock arrogantly.

"No what- oh, of course- you didn't _know_, you worked it out." She folded her arms. "Go on, then cheekbones, I know you're dying to tell me."

He glanced over to her, then turned back to stare off into the middle distance, and said, "there's very faint bruising along your left shoulder, from the pattern, colouring and consistency of it, it's pretty obvious it's from sleeping on a hard surface for two, maybe three weeks. Then there's your smell- the soap you used is from the public toilets three blocks down from here. Why would you use them if you were just going to come to this house, why not your own one? Because you don't have your own one, so you used them to get ready. I'm betting the bag you left in the cloakroom is disproportionately large for one evening, too."

"Sod you, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you sleeping out tonight, then?"

"Not like I've got any choice, is it?" Ria muttered grumpily, folding up her legs and resting her chin on them. The evening had taken a definite downturn.

"You could always hook up with one of the lords inside. I'm sure they'd let you in quite happily."

"I'm not that cheap, Mr Holmes."

"You could…" Sherlock cleared his throat. Ria's head snapped round to look at him.

"Could what?"

"The hotel where I'm staying, my brother's paying for it until I can find a flat in London… Well, you could sleep on the sofa, if you want."

"What? Really?!" All anger vanished from her face, and Sherlock nodded. "Thanks!" There was an awkward pause, then;

"Come on," said Sherlock, "we- I'm not going to find out anything about the Mask here, we might as well go back." He walked back through the ballroom, Ria close behind him. Lestrade watched them, open-mouthed, as they passed, and Ria could tell what he was thinking.

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><p><strong>AN There's so much Johnlock on this website a fic of my own would be like pouring a glass of water into the ocean, and besides, I wanted to write an OC/Sherlock thing. And while there are many awesome Sherlock/OC fics on this site, all of which I love, I felt likeI could add another one. An OC just as up herself, and maybe as clever, as the consulting detective himself. Ria's been wandering around my head for a while, making sarcastic comments, and The White Mask has been a detective story I have always wanted to write. So, here it is- Sherlock, dealing with not one but two women who are, almost uniquely, on par with him. Oh, sparks will fly.**

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><p><strong>PS I will try and update regularly every two weeks as I have already written this fic, but there are no guarantees. Every review, follow and favourite (but particularly reviews, I love hearing what you have to say) is welcomed, including constructive criticism.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**_"She feeds my addiction,_**

**_She leaves something different,_**

**_The smoke from our last meeting has risen."_**

**_-Miss Cigarette, Rizzle Kicks_**

Ria stirred on the plush sofa, causing Sherlock's black greatcoat to fall off of her and onto the floor. When they had reached the hotel last night- an expensive place with bellboys who looked down their nose at her- Ria had sat down on the sofa, and fell asleep almost immediately. The man who had raised her always used to joke that she could fall asleep hanging upside down on a crane, and last night was no exception. She hadn't remembered pulling the coat up over her; Sherlock must have done it after she'd blacked out.

Sherlock's hotel room was tidy, save for a long table along one wall which was cluttered with scientific equipment and newspapers.

She sat up, stretched, and shrieked when she saw Sherlock on the chair opposite, completely still, and watching her, his face unreadable.

"I made you coffee," he told her, nodding to a steaming mug on the table beside her.

"Fanks," she replied. Her Portsmouth accent was stronger than usual, as she'd just woken up. She took a sip of the black liquid, and pulled a face. "Too bitter." She walked across the room to a small tray, and dropped three sugar cubes into her mug.

"There were already two sugars in that," Sherlock said, smiling slightly.

Ria shrugged. "I have a sweet tooth. Why'd you let me sleep here, Mr Holmes?"

The consulting detective paused, then replied, "you're too clever to be sleeping rough. I don't want a great mind like yours to go to waste."

"And the great body." He raised an eyebrow, and she beamed innocently at him. "I appreciate it, Mr Holmes. Really. What's that?" She nodded to the equipment.

"An experiment on the potency of anaesthetics."

"Oh. Right. So what's the plan for today, then?"

"Not sure yet. I'll have to go in to Scotland Yard, Lestrade's got a list of witnesses and he won't let me talk to them unregulated."

"Can't imagine why, what with your outstandingly smooth social skills."

Sherlock looked at her blankly.

"Sarcasm," she told him, and grinned. "Well, are we going to Scotland Yard or not then?"

"You're not," Sherlock said flatly. "You're a journalist, there's no way Lestrade'll let you in."

"I've got into your hotel room; the Yard'll be a breeze after that. You underestimate me, cheekbones. Can I borrow your shower?"

After she had showered, Ria pulled on some of the clothes she kept in her oversized rucksack; a pair of skinny jeans that were more hole than denim, a faded Queen T-shirt and her old leather jacket. While she laced up her scuffed Docs, she watched Sherlock at the mirror, fiddling with a thin black tie.

"Don't wear that," she told him.

"Why?"

"Because you look uncomfortable in it, and too much like a policeman," she walked over to him, undid his tie (highly aware of the very little space between them again) and threw it out of the open window.

They both stared each other down, neither moving nor blinking. After a minute or so, Sherlock stepped away, breaking the spell.

"She's the perfect criminal, you know," Sherlock told her, unhooking a long black coat from behind the door.

"Who?"

"The Mask."

"Oh, yeah. Why?"

"Because there's no motive. She gives the money away to charity because she doesn't need it, and if she was doing it for the charities then she could just work for them. No… She does it for the thrill. She likes being chased."

"And you like chasing her?" Ria raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't worry. Come on."

Sherlock ignored the lift, and took the stairs down to the lobby. Ria slid down the banister alongside him.

"I still don't see how you're going to convince Lestrade to let you in on this case," said Sherlock, hailing a cab and opening the door for Ria to climb in.

"Well, you'll just have to wait and find out, then, won't you, cheekbones?"

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><p><strong>AN Thanks for the reviews, follows, favourites! Due to the amount of time it will take to upload this, there will probably now be a new chapter weekly, unless I'm unable to do so.**


	3. Chapter 3

**_"It's getting late, and I_**

**_Cannot seem to find my way home tonight,_**

**_Feels like I am falling down a rabbit hole,_**

**_Falling for forever, wonderfully wandering alone."_**

**_-C'mon, Panic! At The Disco & Fun._**

"No," said Lestrade firmly, arms crossed. When they had first arrived in Lestrade's division, he had cast his eyes up and down Ria with an appraising look that she was long since used to. But when Sherlock introduced her, the Inspector had turned a lot cooler towards her. "Sorry, Miss Smith. I understand that you're with Sherlock, but you can't just-"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, this is a widely publicised case, or else I wouldn't be here. But have you ever thought how useful it would be, having an _ally _in the press? They've been making up all sorts of shit, and quite frankly, it horrifies me. But if you were to let me follow Sherlock around, then I can report on the _actual_ advances that you're making, without publishing anything you might wish to keep confidential. I respect that. Oh, and I can't imagine how time-consuming it is, babysitting Sherlock. I can keep an eye on him at the same time." She beamed, and caught her reflection in the window behind Lestrade. She looked hot.

Lestrade gaped at her, then realised he was gaping, and shut his mouth. He was totally in shock, but it was only to be expected. "Fine," he snapped. But I want daily reports, and don't encourage him." He jerked his head towards his office. "List of witnesses is in there."

"Very smooth," Sherlock muttered in Ria's ear. She could hear the grin in his voice. "I underestimated you."

"And there's something you should never do." She picked up two pieces of paper, stapled together, and scanned it.

"Your lips move when you read," Sherlock informed her. She ignored him.

"First on the list is the one of the fourth victim's- Lord Coney- security guards. Highly trained, top-end guy. He got knocked out cold by the Mask, apparently."

"No lasting damage?"

"Of course not."

"Love a vigilante." Ria laughed at him.

"So, to the home of Mr James Buckland."

Buckland's flat was the epitome of tidy, ordered living. Three pairs of highly polished shoes, and some squeaky clean running trainers, sat neatly in a row by the door, with coats hanging perfectly straight above them. Books were arranged by size and colour on the shelves in the living room, and the desk was far tidier than any normal person's would be. Ria sat awkwardly on the sofa, Sherlock stood to one side of her, and Buckland lounged in the chair opposite them, all perfect tan and manicured nails.

"So describe to me how you got beaten up, again?" Sherlock asked. Buckland raised a hand to his black eye.

"Do you know how the Mask broke in undetected, Mr Holmes? She looped the security cameras. They're hacked to show old footage of an empty hallway, and resumed live footage just in time to catch her walking off with her loot. She waved- she _taunts _us, because by the time the other guards get from the surveillance room, she's long gone."

"And you're out cold," finished Ria, smiling slightly. Nobody else had reported the thing with the cameras. If Lestrade let her, this could be a nice exclusive.

Buckland leered at her, but otherwise ignored her. He turned to Sherlock. "I was guarding the door to Lord Coney's study, which is where he keeps his valuables, locked in a safe. It was just me there, as was protocol, and the closest guard was in the surveillance room, which was a floor below me. I thought I heard a disturbance behind me- in the study. I turned around, checked the door was still safely locked, and when I turned back, the Mask was in front of me."

"And then what happened?"

"Naturally, I went to tackle her. But she ducked, got a hold of my legs, and pulled me crashing to the ground. She was well trained in combat, Mr Holmes, but not in any style I recognised. I jumped up, raised my fists, and before I could do anything, she grabbed my wrists and pulled me towards her, driving a knee into my- my stomach."

"The whole truth, please, Mr Buckland."

"Fine. It was my groin. I doubled over, and she swung her open palm up onto my chin, snapping my head back. She punched me on the eye, and sent my head rocking back into the wall. I collapsed, and the last thing I remember before I blacked out was her taking my keys to the study and- kissing me. Well, I suppose that since she was wearing a full face mask, it didn't count, but she placed those porcelain lips to my cheek nonetheless."

"He sounded really pervy when he said that," Ria muttered in Sherlock's ear.

"And then?"

"And then, Mr Holmes, I woke up three hours later with a throbbing headache and guarding an empty safe."

"Very well. Thank you for your time, Mr Buckland." Sherlock stood up to leave, and Ria, binding her notebook hurriedly, followed suit.

"Wait? Is that all?" asked the security guard.

"Well, yes, unless you want me to tell you the details of your wife's affair." Buckland's face blanched under his tan.

"What?"

"Time to go, Sherlock." Ria grabbed his sleeve and began to drag him out of the house.

"It was with her PA!" Sherlock yelled as she slammed the front door behind him.

"How the _hell _did you know that?"

"I thought it was obvious."

"Not particularly, and there was no bloody reason for it either. You were just showing off, do you have any idea how much trouble you could get into with Lestrade for that?!"

"I won't." Sherlock took Ria by the shoulders and spun her round to face him. "They need me. And you have to admit, his reaction was brilliant."

Ria rolled her eyes, but the mental image of Buckland's sheer panic _was_ funny. She shrugged off Sherlock's hands.

"Next witness, cheekbones."


	4. Chapter 4

**_"My eyeliner runs in constellations for you dear._**

**_If only I could reboot my mechanical heart I'd think clear."_**

**_-Lady Gaga, Future Love_**

**POLICE CONFIRM NEW evidence ON "WHITE MASK" CASE**

**_Notorious thief has habits that could cost her freedom, confirms Scotland Yard_**

_Inspector G Lestrade of Scotland Yard has today confirmed to Ria Wiccan, special correspondent, that the White Mask uses original and therefore easily traceable techniques to perform her heists._

_"As well as the obvious costume choices, she loops the security cameras in a way we haven't seen before," said the Inspector. "However, this means we can recognise the algorithms she uses almost immediately, and send the police in before she gets away with any jewels."_

_The Masks latest heist was that of Baroness Ewer, a few weeks ago. It seems she is long overdue another raid, and the police seem confident that with this new evidence, it will also be her last._

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><p><strong>AN Sorry this is a couple of days late. I'm just about to post another actual chapter to go with this.**


	5. Chapter 5

**_"Anyway, why're we here talking about this good and evil? They're just names for sides."_**

**_-Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman_**

_One Week Later_

The case of the White Mask was still unsolved, much to Sherlock's annoyance- and Ria's amusement. Apart from the obvious, no evidence had been found, not a single trace of the Mask's DNA had been left to analyse, and not one of the stolen jewels had been traced. Sherlock had sent Ria out to buy an unusual list of supplies- although it was probably normal by his standards- while he stayed in the hotel room and thought. Ria didn't mind; it was good to something as thoughtless as shopping, and besides, he'd given her extra money.

The extra money had been meant for clothes "and other things people need" but she was currently sat curled up in a corner of Waterstones, reading the first book of a pile as big as she could carry. Ria had never been able to afford her own books before.

"Are you going to be paying for those, Miss?" Ria looked up at a very severe-looking saleswoman.

"Um, yeah, sure." She uncurled, stood up with the pile of books held in place in her arms with her chin, and followed the woman over to the counter. After she handed over the cash, the woman knocked three four times loudly on the desk, and the people of the bookshop left, as one, except for a pretty woman dressed in a tight black dress with a spray of freckles across her nose.

"You have to come with me," she told Ria, not looking up from her phone.

"Right. Uh." Ria grabbed her books and followed the woman out through the back of the shop, to a sleek and very expensive looking black car. She climbed into the back seat, next to the woman, and dumped the books between them.

"So," she smiled at her, "where are you taking me then, Miss…?"

"Jones." The woman looked up from her phone at the attractive girl sitting next to her, grinning like the Cheshire Cat's prodigy. "And I'm afraid you'll have to wait and find out."

"Such a shame, Miss _Jones_," replied Ria, exaggerating the name to make it clear she knew it was an alias. The woman looked down at her phone, blushing slightly, and Ria turned to look at the buildings rushing past her.

It was a short drive to an abandoned warehouse on the riverfront, a hangar with a melancholy sort of charm to its rusted metal supports. It reminded Ria of where she had grown up. The two women walked in, the clacking of Miss Jones' stilettos contrasting with the thud of Ria's boots, and up to a man who looked as if he had lost a lot of weight in a very short time, leaning on an umbrella.

"Good afternoon, Miss _Smith_," he said putting exactly the same emphasis on Ria's surname as she had with Jones'. She stiffened. She had no idea how much this man knew about her life, and if it was everything, then she would have to run.

And she really didn't want to.

"What is your business with Mr Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked.

"Could ask the same thing about you," she replied warily.

He laughed, humourlessly. "I think it would be best if I asked the questions, don't you?"

"Does the Government approve of you doing this?" Ria folded her arms.

The guy's face went sour. "And how do you know I work for the Government?" he asked smoothly.

"Please," Ria snorted, "I'm not thick."

"Ah, so that's why you are sticking to Sherlock," he said, "Birds of a feather."

"I'm not that sentimental. It's free accommodation."

"And yet… a woman- or, should I say, a nineteen year old girl-" Ria bit her lip "of your… _upbringing_ would be able to find a place far more hospitable than the sofa of a hotel. Even if it does mean sacrificing a few exclusives about the White Mask, I'm sure you'd be able to obtain them anyhow." He smiled coldly.

"How did you find out about me?" asked Ria savagely. _How much has he found out?_

"My people, we, ah, keep a log on the activities of the adoptive children and pupils of Harry Jamieson, as we could hardly expect them to lead honest lives after his death- the circumstances of which, I might add, were not accidental."

"You son of a-" Ria snarled, but the umbrella man cut her off.

"No, you misunderstand me, it was not one of ours who pushed him into the ocean that night, but I'm afraid we shall never know more than that." His eyes glittered, only fractionally warmer than those of a snake's. "Anyway, we tracked you, and you were the only one of his band of renegades to pursue a, shall we call it, a _clean_ career."

Ria relaxed slightly. "So you see the good girl of the Jamieson's using Sherlock Holmes to get a decent scoop on the Mask case and you… You wanted to protect him. What is he, your boyfriend? Hardly. Brother?" Silence from the man. "He is! _And _you're paying for his hotel room. Must be pretty close." She started walking out of the warehouse. "I'll tell him we met."

"Miss Smith," Mr Holmes called after her. "Sherlock Holmes is not like ordinary people."

She turned. "Yeah, I'd noticed that."

"Do not mistake his taking you in for sentimentality or affection," Holmes said. "That is not his style. He cares a thousand times more about the Mask than he does you- that is, until he solves the case."

Ria cocked her head to one side, all the old confidence back. "And you're telling me this, why exactly?"

The fake smile was gone now. "Just a friendly warning."


	6. Chapter 6

**_"When Rome's in ruins, we are the lions,_**

**_Free of the coliseums."_**

**_-Young Volcanoes, Fall Out Boy_**

Miss Smith dropped Ria off where she had picked her up, and Ria bought everything left on Sherlock's list and caught a taxi back to the hotel with the leftover change. When she walked in, Sherlock was standing by the window, playing the violin. She recognised it vaguely as Beethoven.

"I got the shopping," she said, dumping the bags on a table in the middle of the-room-that-was-not-the-bedroom (as it had become known). "You play beautifully, by the way."

"Mycroft texted me," Sherlock put the violin and bow down and walked over. "It's obvious how you grew up, looking back."

"Ha! You still don't know the half of it." Ria looked away, jaw stuck out.

"Then tell me."

"What?"

"I'm taking you out to dinner."

"What, like a date?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Stupid question. 'Course it ain't, I forgot how much of a sociopath you were."

"You say that like it's a good thing."

She shrugged. "In certain cases. So you're expecting dinner is a suitable payment for my life story?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I'll get changed, then."

Ria could tell Sherlock was distracted in the cab as they drove to the restaurant; he was muttering street names under his breath, just before they passed them.

"She's really getting to you, ain't she?"

"What?"

"The White Mask."

"There was a moment of angry silence, and then- "there's _nothing_! No leads, no evidence, no suspects- she's covered her traces perfectly, but she- she _shows off_."

"And I'm sure you two would make a very happy couple, but for God's sake, Sherlock, have a bloody night off. I haven't seen you eat since I've known you. Or sleep that much, for that matter."

"I think better when the body is deprived."

"Obviously not well enough, though." Sherlock glared at her, and she beamed back at him until his expression broke and he smiled back.

"We're here, come on."

It was by far the most posh food place Ria had ever been in. The waiters and waitresses were dressed like penguins, and the small, cloth-coloured round tables were each decorated with a single rose, dyed blue to match the décor, in an otherwise empty glass. They sat down near a window, and Sherlock stared intently at her.

"What?"

"Your jawline."

"What about it?"

"You hide it. You normally have your hair down, but it's up now and you're still leaving the front parts hanging to hide your jaw. Why?"

"I, uh, I've got a scar by my ear from when I was little. It's the closest thing I've got to a complex about it." Sherlock laughed, and, much to Ria's relief, didn't pursue the subject any further.

Neither of them ate much that evening. Once their plates had been taken away, Sherlock finally mentioned the metaphorical elephant that had been their third and hitherto ignored dinner guest.

"So, how did you grow up?"

Ria took a deep breath, and began.

"I dunno how much you know about Harry Jamieson, so I'll start from the beginning. In Portsmouth Dockyard, there's this big empty warehouse that nobody goes into. It's the blind spot of the city; not many people know about it, and those who do don't talk about it. That's where the Jamiesons live.

"Harry Jamieson… none of us ever knew his background. But there are a lot of homeless kids living around the docks, and it's a dangerous place to be. So he took them- us- in, adopted us, taught us. The authorities came once or twice while I was there- it was in no way legal, this setup- but nothing ever happened.

"I think I was about four when I first joined. I don't remember my birth parents, or much of life before that warehouse- just that it was cold. But I got taken in by one of his scouts, given food, and a place to sleep, and I learnt how to survive. We learnt the basic stuff- maths and English and history, stuff like that, but then, how to pickpocket, and blag your way into exclusive places, and lie without giving yourself away. And how to read people, too, like you do. We chose our own names, we created our identities and learnt to use society to get what we wanted, or needed, or what the world or the people we loved wanted or needed.

"There was always around twenty of us, and we all thought we were family- Harry's kids. Ones who had left, they never forgot, and I guess they helped pay the rent and repairs on the warehouse, and for food and supplies and stuff- we were never expected to steal the basics. Stuff we _wanted_, though, we had to figure out a way to get it ourselves- it didn't have to be illegal, but most people chose to steal because we were never given money. I never did though- I could charm what I wanted out of people, easy."

"I've noticed," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah, well you would, wouldn't you? Anyway- last year, two weeks before my nineteenth birthday- that's the maximum age you're allowed to live there until- Harry died. Fell into the ocean, body never found. Except according to your brother, someone pushed him. Guess I'll never know who." She laughed bitterly. "I was never sure exactly what I wanted to be. There's the thrill of crime, but there's also the risk of getting put in prison. So I became a journalist, so I could follow the criminals, instead. But, suddenly, I was homeless- no plan, no money, and the people I grew up with dead, or scattered, or netted by social services. I was alone. So I came to London, like most people do when they've got nowhere, and nothing, and nobody, and I slept in hostels, and on the streets, trying to get a decent job at a newspaper. Which is impossible.

"And then… I see you, at Ewer's. And you look clever, and different, and hot, and I ended up going to your place and, for the first time in all of human _bloody _history not having sex."

There was a ringing silence.

"I'm sorry about Harry Jamieson," said Sherlock, slowly. Ria rubbed her forehead.

"Don't worry, I'm getting over it. Um… Can we go back, now?"

"What? Yes, of course." Sherlock, who had apparently been lost in his own mind, stood up quickly, handed a wad of money to a nearby waiter, grabbed his coat and walked out, not even glancing back at Ria. A sharp spike of hurt jabbed through her. _I've just told him my entire life story, and now he just… says sorry, and then ignores me? _The pain turned to anger, and she glared daggers into his back as they left the restaurant. _He's probably thinking about the Mask.' Course he is. And then he'll catch her, because he's so brilliant, and she'll get boring. And then he'll move onto something else. Stuff is only interesting to the great Sherlock Holmes while it's cleverer than him. But he's cleverer than anyone, so the ordinaries aren't worth bothering with. _Mycroft's words came back to her.

_He cares a thousand times more about the Mask than he does you- that is, until he solves the case._


	7. Chapter 7

**_"I'm sorry that I love you,_**

**_Stay with me, bell bottom blue."_**

**_-Dope, Lady Gaga_**

Ria had barely said a word over the next twenty-for hours, and Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed.

At that current moment, he was stood immobile in front of one of the hotel room walls, which he had covered with photos, articles, and police reports on the Mask, all linked with red silk ribbon. Ria sat curled up on the sofa, staring moodily at her fingernails.

"She's _beating _me!" Sherlock burst out, angrily.

"Good for you."

"No, it isn't- or was that sarcasm?"

"No, actually, it wasn't." Ria stood up, and strode up to him until there was only centimetres of space between them. "Because as long as she's beating you, she has your attention. Which works out well for the both of you- why don't you just ask her out for a date, instead of just trying to fucking impress her?!" she glared at him, then turned away.

Sherlock's face was expressionless. "You're… _Jealous?_ Of a case?"

"No shit," she muttered, but Sherlock walked around so he was still facing her. He looked angry too, now.

"You think you're in competition with her? She's abstract, she's a problem. She's not the one I'm trying to impress."

"What?"

"You're one of the cleverest people I've ever met. I need to prove to you that that isn't ordinary, we're not ordinary, and to do that I need to solve this case, don't you see?" He gestured to the paper-covered wall behind him.

"So if we can't beat her, nothing will. But in the meantime, you're just using me as an extra brain."

Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration. "Oh, like you're not just using this situation as a free place to stay, and get your bloody exclusive?"

"I never thought that! Why do you think I came over to you that night? You were the only person in there who didn't seem like a moron, someone who actually half interesting and- I can't leave you alone, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughed, closing his eyes. "I think I can understand that. You have a glamour about you, Ria Wiccan- everybody around you falls in love with you, have you noticed that?"

"Yeah, _most _people."

"Well, we've yet to find an outlier."

"Good," she smiled. "I think kissing is probably the apt thing to do, right now."

"I think it probably is."


	8. Chapter 8

**_"'What a very attractive woman!' I exclaimed, turning to my companion._**

**_He had lit his pipe and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. 'Is she?' he said languidly. 'I did not observe.'"_**

**_-The Sign Of Four, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_**

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><p>Ria opened one eye, blearily. She'd hadn't really had a chance to take her contact lenses out last night, for obvious reasons, and she suspected they had glued themselves to her eyeballs. A cup of coffee was sat on the sideboard beside her, and the coolness of the sheets told her Sherlock must have got up a while ago.<p>

"Typical virgin," she muttered, sipping the coffee.

"Who is?" Sherlock asked. He was leaning against the doorframe, smiling slightly.

"Nobody. Were you watching me sleep?"

"I was waiting for you to wake up; I've got an idea."

Ria raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"About the White Mask."

"_Oh._ Well, what is it?"

He sat down on the bed next to her and explained the plan. Once he was finished, the coffee was sitting cold and untouched on the bedside cabinet.

"No posh person is gonna let us stake out their house for a week and use their glittery stuff as bait for the Mask. 'Sides, don't you think she'll be able to get past you?"

Well I was going to ask you to flatter someone, and she won't know I'm there, so we have the element of surprise."

"I'm pleased to see you're taking me for granted. And, although I don't think this is going to work, I'm totally willing to support you and your crazy ideas." She stood up; bedsheet wrapped around her, and patted him on the cheek as she stumbled groggily to the bathroom. "Who is it you want me to chat up, then?"

"Lord Davison, I really can't tell you how much I'd appreciate you lending us this beautiful place for a week or so." Ria leaned forward and clasped the fifty-something married man's hands, batted her eyelashes for good measure, and tried not to vomit all over his knees.

"Not quite as beautiful as you, Miss Smith." With his wife away on holiday for a month, he was completely besotted by the young woman asking for a favour.

Ria giggled, and tried not to punch him. She'd lost count of the amount of times she had had to behave like this to get her own way, and it had, if anything, become more painful.

"So… you'll let us have it?"

"Of course."

Ria smiled, a real grin, not a brainless simper. "Good. I'll call my colleague, let him know. You're all sorted for alternative accommodation, right?"

Davison pulled back his puffy lips into a predatory smile. "Yes, but you must come _visit _me and tell me how it is all going along."

"Definitely. Anything for you, my lord." She stood up and strode quickly out of his house, easily remembering her way through the labyrinth of corridors. Once she was halfway down the gravel driveway, she dialled Sherlock on the cheap, ten pound mobile she had bought earlier that day, after Sherlock had told her he needed her number.

"It's fine. We got it for the week."

"Brilliant." Sherlock spoke with a renewed energy. "I'll be there in half an hour, to start setting things up."

"You're sure this is gonna work, ain't you?"

"Why wouldn't I be? I've never been beaten yet."

"First time for everything, Mr Holmes. Surely you know that now."


	9. Chapter 9

**_"She came here to entertain you,_**

**_You'll fall hard into her charm"_**

**_-All The Boys, Panic! At The Disco_**

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><p><strong><strong>"But why, though? Why do we have to sit here and wait for her? Why can't we just watch on the CCTV?"

"Because I want us both to be there when we catch her."

Ria hid her grin at the use of "us" and "we". "But it's gonna be so _boring_. I won't even be able to read or anything."

"So? Do what other normal people do when they have to sit in a darkened room with no entertainment?"

"Masturbate? I think that would be pretty awkward. And don't call me normal."

Sherlock glared at her as the taxi pulled up Davison's driveway, and she held his gaze. These impromptu staring contests were becoming a bit of a habit. This time, Ria conceded defeat, blinked and grinned at him. She watched him shoulders relax, his jaw unclench.

_Most people_, ran her inner monologue, _would probably snog at moments like that. Weirdly, I think I prefer this. Huh._

"Come on." Sherlock grabbed the large bag sat on the floor between his legs and opened the door of the cab. He walked round to open Ria's, but she was already out and paying the cabbie with Sherlock's wallet.

"How the hell did you get that?"

"Your eyes were on my face just now- not my hands."

Sherlock grinned as she handed his wallet back to him. "No, definitely not normal," he decided, checking the contents.

"Sherlock?" she asked as they walked into the mansion.

"What?"

"Why didn't we get a decoy of Lady Davison's jewellery, instead of using her actual, really expensive, ruby ring?"

"Because the Mask would notice, and besides, she's not going to get that far."

"You're very optimistic."

"No- realistic."

Ria rolled her eyes. "You know, it's a refreshing change to spend time with someone more up themself than I am."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Good." She smiled innocently, walking up to him until there were only a few inched between them, and she could feel his nicotine-stained breath on her lips.

"I'm meant to be keeping a lookout," he mumbled.

"You mean you find me… distracting?"

"Obviously." He turned away, searching the hallway for a decent hiding place.

"You're adorable when you get flustered, do you know that?"

"Hmm."

They ended up settling in an alcove, behind a massive marble sculpture of some Greek god who apparently liked getting naked. In the shadows, they were completely hidden, and Ria curled up against the wall, trying not to think about the perfectly formed stone arse that was hiding her from view.

The two of them sat like that, silent, unmoving and apart, for eight hours, until the first rays of sunlight filtered through the net curtains. Ria felt it settle across her face, blinked, and flexed her stiff fingers. She nudged Sherlock, who, like her, had not slept at all, and cricked her neck.

"Morning. That was a bit of an anti-climax."

"Well, I wasn't expecting her to turn up on the first night."

"THEN WHY ARE WE HERE?!"

"You can't be too careful."

Ria buried her face in her hands, and groaned. "I can't do this again."

"Of course you can; you're brilliant."

"I am that, but my brilliance does not make sitting in pitch black silence any more fun. I think I'll sleep tomorrow night instead, Sherlock. Sorry."

"It's fine." The consulting detective turned his head a fraction of an inch away from her.

"Listen, I have every confidence that my astounding bad luck will mean the Mask will turn up tomorrow, you'll catch her and we'll all have to bathe in your glory, if that's any comfort." The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a smile. "See! You'll be fine. Just try not to have too much fun without me."

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><p><strong>AN Two things you need to know about me:**

**1) I really, really, LOVE getting reviews. So much.**

**2) I am very bad at subtle hints.**


	10. Chapter 10

**_"I admit that my habit's expensive,_**

**_And you may find it quite offensive._**

**_But I won't die at the hands of another."_**

**_-Jewels N' Drugs, Lady Gaga_**

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><p><em>Dawn was in three hours. Sherlock doubted she would be coming tonight. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. Frustration edged slightly over boredom, his feet itched, and although he didn't particularly want to admit it, he missed Ria, if only because, by comparison, she made him feel patient.<em>

_Sherlock felt a cool breeze across the back of his hand, almost unnoticeable, and his eyes snapped open. _

Direction and intensity suggest… coming from the study itself, under the door, _he thought, _but the doors and windows are all locked; there's no way in-

Unless…

_His fingers flew to his temples as he conjured up the room in his mind. It spun round him at a dizzying speed, large, early eighteenth century, oak-panelled walls, and large enough to become the centrepiece of the room, a large and original-_

_The room dissolved for an instant as childhood memories flooded back to him, of a fat, rosy-cheeked man all in red, who was meant to come down the-_

"Fireplace!"

_The consulting detective leapt up, no trace of stiffness in his limbs, and ran to the study door, which clicked and swung open as he stretched out his hand for the door handle. His hand flew sideways, for the light switch, and the figure in front of him cocked her head to one side._

_She was tall and slim, but her stance, with legs apart and chin raised, radiated power. No skin was visible- instead, she was dressed from head to toe in skintight black material, which absorbed the light around it and somehow made her look like she had kept the darkness with her. The trousers had large pockets down the side, and were worn with knee-high black boots with soles designed to grip to almost everything- Sherlock recognised the design. There was a harness strapped around her waist and shoulders, and she wore a belt with climber's rope and several gleaming steel instruments strapped to it. A hood threw the porcelain mask, streaked with soot but with its red lips and black-rimmed eyes still visible, into shadows. The only sign of any humanity were in the eyeholes, where black eyes- _contacts, _he realised- glittered with amusement and curiosity._

_The Mask lowered her arms, which had been folded, and bowed to Sherlock. As he began to incline his head in return, she swung a gloved fist and punched him on the ear, throwing his balance and sending him staggering to one side. Flailing slightly, he brought his arms up into a defensive stance, then brought his elbow round and attempted to slam it into her back. She twisted at the last moment, catching his arm and using his weight against him as she slipped underneath. Sherlock spun, wishing he'd brought a gun, but the Mask stuck one foot behind his and pulled, sending him crashing to the floor. He felt the needle of a syringe, previously attached securely to the Mask's waist, pressed against his neck, not quite breaking through his skin. He thought of swinging his arms up, then realised she was standing on them, toes on the floor and heels on his wrists._

_"Sedative?" he asked through gritted teeth as he turned his head slightly to look up at her. She nodded._

_"Of course. A murder charge would really give the police a reason to hunt you down, and we wouldn't want that." She shook her head. "Did you get it?" She reached with her free hand into a pocket, and pulled out a beautiful ruby ring, set in silver. It was the same colour as her painted lips. "Oh, Ria is going to regret seeing me beaten. She would have loved that- but then, if she'd been here, maybe you would never have won that fight. Congratulations."_

_He heard a strange, muffled noise, then realised the Mask had laughed. He felt the cool metal of the needle leave his skin, and a moment later, the pressure left his wrists. She walked a few metres away from him, and waited for him to get up, wincing as bruises began to form._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"For all your genius, you really are quite stupid, Mr Holmes." She reached up and pulled off that exquisite porcelain mask._

_Suddenly, looking tired and battle weary and all too young, stood Ria, a humourless half-smile pulling at her lips._


	11. Chapter 11

**_"It's better to burn than to fade away,_**

**_It's better to leave than be replaced."_**

**_-Nicotine, Panic! At The Disco_**

"Hi," she said, what with there being no real etiquette for the current situation. Sherlock stared at her, nonplussed, no trace of his usual pride or arrogance. He had dropped his mask, too. "Um- please say something."

"_You?!_"

"Yeah," she sat down on the edge of the statue's plinth, the one she'd been hiding behind last night, and stared at the mask in her hands. "I know." She was surprised at how emotionless she sounded.

"Why? Explain." Sherlock hadn't moved- he just stood there, immobile, those magnificently complicated eyes never wavering from her.

"Well," she picked at one of the head straps absent-mindedly, "I did try to keep on the straight 'n narrow, honest. It's just… Journalism wasn't as fun as I thought it'd be, and I wanted a kick, I missed adrenalin. So, I was talking to my mate, and she mentioned this bitchy posh bird, and how she kept on bragging about all her jewellery and stuff, and I thought, why the hell not?

"Wait, you're not recording this, are you?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock quickly. "You've already picked my pocket."

Ria grinned, pulled his phone out of her pocket. "Yeah."

"Carry on, please."

"Oh, right. Well, I knew this guy, one of Harry Jamieson's old guys, who would get you all the equipment and stuff. And he said, if I really wanted to piss people off, create a persona. So he made me this-" she waved the mask- "it's not actually porcelain, it's reinforced plaster or something, but he painted it to make it look all old. And I had all the skills, I could pick locks and hack security systems and, as I'm sure you've noticed, I'm very fit- so I stole her diamond necklace, fenced it to a guy who would melt down the chain and sell the jewel separately, and gave the money away, so they would never trace me. It was never about the profit, see? Like you and your consulting.

"So I did it again, and again, and I thought, the best way to make sure the police weren't onto me was to cover it as an ongoing article thing. And then you turned up, an unpredicted factor in this problem, and you were hot, and clever, and funny, and I thought, why the hell not? It's not like you were gonna catch me.

"And you didn't, did you? I could have walked away, made something up about having to split up with you, everything would've been fine. 'Cept, I couldn't do it to you." She looked up at him, aware of the burning as her eyes filled up, and her voice broke. "I- I _wouldn't _leave you like that, forever not knowing, not knowing that the person I was pretending to be jealous of was actually me, getting more of a kick out of pulling you as two different people than I did _being _two different people, and you'd never know I was better than you, and-"

"You were always better than me," he said softly.

"Well, _duh_. I took over your heart and your mind simultaneously, and you never realised it was all me. That's pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. And now I'm probably gonna go to prison for it." She walked over to him, held her wrists out. "Go on, then. I left your handcuffs in your pocket. I just wish we could have used them in different circumstances."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, took her face in her hands, and kissed her, gently. "It's three in the morning now. I'm not going to say anything until the first minute of tomorrow," he whispered, forehead leaning against hers. "Go."

_Is this what it feels like?_, she wondered, _to be loved?_

Ria flung her arms around his neck. "Thank you." She kissed him back one last time, turned and walked away to the study, apparently leaving the way she came, pulling her Mask back on as she went.

* * *

><p><strong>AN penultimate chapter! Once I finish this fic I meant to start uploading a new one, but none of them are at that stage yet. On the other hand, I just uploaded a short Supernatural oneshot angsty thing, so feel free to check that out. Please review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**_"'Will she live happily ever after?'_**

**_'Not forever. But perhaps for long enough.'"_**

**_-Witches Abroad, Terry Pratchett_**

Ria decided to wait for him to get back to the hotel room before running- she wasn't going to leave without saying goodbye. She sat cross-legged on the coffee table, picking at her nails absent-mindedly as the room darkened around her. At one minute to midnight, the door opened.

"Hello," said Sherlock, quietly. "I thought you wouldn't still be here."

"I didn't want too much of a headstart, or it wouldn't be fun. And I wanted to say bye, as well." She glanced at the clock, as every hand met the twelve. "Although you'll probably see my face in the papers a lot, though."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"But you said you'd call the police-"

"Tomorrow, yes. And unless I'm very much mistaken, it still isn't tomorrow."

Ria stood up, and almost tripped over her bag. "Are you serious?!"

"Of course, that doesn't mean it will never be tomorrow, so I would get as far away from here, from me, as possible," he told her.

She ran up to him, flung her arms around his neck. "Thank you," she murmured, "I owe you now."

"Don't be stupid," he replied, holding onto her tightly. "Anyway, I can't think when I'm around you. You'll make me lose my job."

"Such as it is." She rested her forehead on his, lips pursed tightly together, then broke away, hoisting her rucksack onto her shoulders, as she walked past him. "It was a pleasure working with you, Mr Holmes," she called over her shoulder as she descended the hotel stairs.

"And I can gladly, Miss Smith say the same about you."

_**"Romance should never begin with sentiment. It should begin with science and end with a settlement."**_

_**-Oscar Wilde**_

_THE END_

_OR IS IT?_

_THIS IS SHERLOCK. OF COURSE IT ISN'T._

_A few years later_

John glared at his ex-flatmate, who was acting if him having a girlfriend- a completely normal, non-psychopathic- girlfriend- was something he just expected the doctor to gloss over. The detective sat there, waiting for this Magnussen guy, fiddling with his phone absent-mindedly.

"Are we not going to talk any more about Janine?" John asked.

"I don't see why you're having so much trouble dealing with her, John; she is your spouse's best friend."

"Her name. Is Mary. You know her name is Mary. And stop trying to distract me, you're not getting away with it that easi-" he broke off, mid word, as someone banged on the door. "You shut the doorbell in the fridge again, didn't you."

"That'll be her," said Sherlock, standing and walking over to the mirror. "Answer the door, John, Mrs Hudson's probably too busy watching daytime television."

"But Magnussen's a bloke!"

"Just get the door."

John held his breath, counted to ten before letting it out again, slowly. "Fine! But we're not done here."

He took the stairs two at a time, curious to see who Sherlock was meeting just before Magnussen was due. What he was not expecting to see when he opened the door was an really very pretty woman, dark hair fluttering across her face in the wind. She didn't look well; her eyes were shadowed, her knuckles skinned and she looked as if she hadn't had a decent meal in a very long time.

"Here to see Mr Holmes?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "And congratulations on your wedding, doctor."

"I- come in." John stood to one side and welcomed in the woman, or rather girl- she couldn't be older than mid-twenties. "You read the blog, then?"

"What blog?" she asked, then; "oh, right, your blog, the infamous Dr Watson's blog. Nah, I read you. It wasn't hard. Your wedding ring's new, you keep fiddling with it and there's not much of a tan line underneath."

"Not another one," muttered John, following her up the stairs. "And how did you know I was a doctor?"

"Like I said- infamous." She bit her lip as they reached the landing, pausing before pushing the living room door open. "Still not tomorrow, then?" she asked.

There was a moment silence as Sherlock stared at the newcomer, eyes flicking up and down as he deduced her. There was a moment of silence, before he crossed the room and hugged her.

"You've lost weight," he said, by way of greeting.

"And you've put it on. Seems like living with a normal person was good for you- hey, you even seem to have a normal girlfriend, now."

"Hmm." Sherlock released her. "How did you know?"

"You smell like cheap perfume, and there's washing up in the bowl."

"I missed you," grinned the detective.

"And I you, Mr Holmes."

John stared at them, nonplussed. "What's going on?" he asked.

"He's adorable," said the girl. "Why couldn't you sleep with him?"

"I haven't slept with anybody apart from you. There's no need to look like that, John. This is Ria Smith, otherwise known as the international jewel thief, the White Mask. She's going to help us break into Magnussen's office."

**_"And it was so cold then, and so silent, and I loved you so much. Now it's hot, and dead quiet again, and I love you still."_**

**_-An Abundance of Katherines, John Green_**

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><p><strong>AN Ta-da! Yes, there will be a sequel, no, I don't know when it will happen. I will update this fic with a notification of when I do start uploading its successor, though. I hope you enjoyed reading this!**


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